Forsaken
by Chemical Ghost
Summary: OT AU, Dark Luke, Vader, Leia, Han. To forgive is to free a prisoner...
1. I

_To forgive is to free a prisoner and discover that the prisoner was you_.

_-- Lewis B. Smedes_

* * *

Bright, scathing light is multiplied tenfold as it reflects off the stark, cold white walls of the cell, penetrating every dark corner that could have been, piercing even the black centres of his eyes. It is white-hot flames against what little skin he has left uncovered, like thin but no less sharp blades inserted into his pupils. 

He's used to it. He's used to the clean, bleached emptiness, so sterile that he always feels dirty and unwelcome. The almost inaudible but ever-present drone of electric cables in the walls no longer drives him mad.

What drives him mad is being alone in his own mind. The thoughts racing through it are so fast, so swift and fleeting that he no longer makes sense of them. Sometimes he paces the room. At other times, when he is too weak even to lift his eyes off the floor, he curls up in his corner. The two walls enclosing him offer no comfort. Sometimes they try to devour him.

He doesn't have a name anymore. His number is V138. Just a number. Not his. He once had a name – he does not know how long ago. The days have long since merged into one long, monotonous stretch of nothing. Mindless, hollow seconds ticking away to the beat of his heart. Sometimes he wonders why he still has one.

He remembers having more than one name. Neither was his. One had belonged to the destiny that had been forced upon him at birth. One belonged to the one he had tried and failed to make for himself.

In the end, everything was a lie. He was none of those things, no matter how hard he tried to fool himself. He is nothing now. A blank slate. The empty shell of a soul erased. Or one that had never been in the first place. He is a shadow lurking in a corner. He is the ghost of a memory. He is what could have become something but had gotten lost on the way. This is not his world.

He has no reason to exist, but he does anyway. That was what he does: he is. He breathes. He stares distantly into his own eyes; he can feel them turning into themselves. He watches the transparent, senseless images appear and vanish so quickly that he never really sees them. He can always feel them come.

He listens to the demons howling in his head. They never say anything. Sometimes they scream their hatred and try to rip him apart from the inside, raking their claws down the interior of his skull. Sometimes they wail in torment. Sometimes they cry bitter tears and whisper their loneliness. They never hear him call out to them.

Sometimes he grows restless. His bones are made of steel, too heavy for him to lift, but he does anyway. They are heavy, but they are also indestructible. He tries to fight the walls that sneakily inch closer to him with every breath he takes. They are rough and hard, sometimes cruel.

If he fights fiercely enough, he can hurt them. Then, they aren't white anymore. He can make them bleed, if he tries hard enough. They are the only colours he sees. The pristine, blinding white of the walls and his clothing, the pasty cream-white of his skin and painful scarlet that, in the excessive brightness, scrapes at his eyes.

The red usually disappears within…he does not know how long. It rubs onto his fists. It stays there after the walls heal themselves.

He likes the sharp, fiery feeling, like shafts of acid in his limbs or a fine webbing of it on his skin, or sometimes deeper in his flesh. It makes him feel insane. It makes him feel ill. It makes him feel deathly weak. It makes him feel powerful.

oOo

Renn Viell walked down the deserted-looking hallways with a purposeful stride. It did not show on her stoic, almost apathetic face, but she was bursting with pride, a newfound hope and even excitement. These were strange emotions to feel in a high-security detention facility, especially for a psychologist who dealt with mentally-deranged criminals, but she had a legitimate excuse.

Renn had been working with him for almost three years. Not exactly with him. He had been most uncooperative and lately did not say much anymore. No, a more accurate statement would have been that she worked _for_ him.

From the moment she had laid eyes on him, she had known he was different. Not innocent – she could tell that he was as dangerous as any of them. He was probably the deadliest of the lot.

She knew him for the depraved, hateful person he was. He could be described as a murderous psychopath. But there had been something still in him, something that others had lost. His dark deeds clung to him like heavy, leaden chains.

Her many months of hard, nerve-wracking work were starting to show results.

oOo

Having long since acquired clearance to meet him in the flesh versus behind a transparisteel plane, Renn stepped into the drafty, impersonal, roomy yet confining space. Prisoner V138 was staring at her. She could never catch him off guard. It was as if he could tell beforehand. She was convinced that he could.

"Hi. How are we today?"

His stiff, stony countenance was the customary response.

"Looks like you're in a mighty good mood." She was certain that if he still had still had the ability to change his facial expression, he would have smirked. He replied with his usual deadpan.

"It's my way of expressing my undying love for you." If he was this coherent, it was not the worst of days. She was tempted to blow him a kiss.

"I have some wonderful news for you." He rolled his eyes.

"Fire away." She almost winced at his choice of wording.

"I've managed to convince them that you're better now. You will released in a matter of days. If all works out, all you'll get is a couple of years of military service."

"What makes you think I want out?" Renn chose to ignore the implications.

"It's better that rotting here for the rest of your life, isn't it? Once you're back out there in the real world, you'll love it…You'll never want to go back," she added with a smile. He did not seem to share her enthusiasm.

"What makes you think that the real world wants me back?"

This time, she had nothing to say.

"There's someone who wants to see you."

oOo

The petite, delicate-looking brunette cautiously stepped into the cell as she caught sight of the slight figure sitting in the far corner, the only contrast against the bare, neutral surroundings. If he knew of her presence, he did not acknowledge it. She opened her mouth and, eloquent as she usually was, she was at a loss for words.

She cleared her throat. No response. Hesitantly, she spoke.

"Hello. It's me, Leia."

Silence, still. Did he not recognize her? Three years in captivity could damage someone considerably…Could his memories be gone? Could he be gone?

"Do you remember me?"

She could feel her heart fluttering against her rib cage.

"I'm your friend. You rescued me on the Death Star. You and Han…and Chewie. We were inseparable. When we were on Hoth, it was so cold that we slept on the _Falcon_. There was one time, right before the battle, where I kissed you to spite him…"

Her voice was feeble and trembling. He was like a stone. Unmoved. But stones did not stare and blink at you with bright cerulean eyes. If not quite as bright as before.

"Don't you remember me?"

Desperate, fragile, almost in tears.

It was as if something suddenly fell into place. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes.

"Leia?" Tentative, not daring to believe, perhaps. She lost all restraint and pulled him into a tight embrace. No matter what atrocities he committed, he would still have a place in her heart.

"I love you," she murmured into his hair.

"I hate you."


	2. II

He's running. Running down a hallway so brightly lit that you can see the veins throbbing under his pale, almost translucent skin. Why he is running, he does not know, but he can hear his breaths rattling in his throat – they sound too much like…like what? He cannot remember. He does not want to remember. He can feel the air burning in his lungs; he can feel his blood turn to steel, rendering limbs heavy but powerful enough to propel him forward. No amount of pain will make him stop.

He can't afford to stop. If he does, it will kill him, he knows, even if he does not know what he is running from. Whatever it is, it is descending upon him too fast. He will not be able to go on much longer. Will it hurt? But why is pain unpleasant? Maybe he could – _No. _He has to be strong.

The lights are flickering, distorting his perception of time. It could have been hours. It could have been just a few seconds. The floor wants to meet him. It is tugging at his limbs. It sucks at him like a vacuum. Will it open up and swallow him if he lets himself fall? He can hear water at the other end. Not rushing at him, but sloshing behind the walls. Just the pipes. They can snap if the pressure is too high.

He will drown. The water is not too far behind him. How long will it take for it to catch up? Minutes? An hour? He doesn't know what an hour feels like anymore. A haze floats across his vision. How long will he last before his body gives out? Will that be the last he will see, or will he come to just soon enough to be defeated, to succumb and fall to the inky depths? Will he lie there forever, a wreck at the bottom of a sea, alone and forgotten? Is that what death feels like?

The lights have stopped flickering. The water has not gotten to them yet. He hears something crack. A fracture opens up in the wall. And another…and another, like wounds from an invisible but no less fierce whip – have his enemies fallen? The ruptures are opening like wounds. They're bleeding like wounds, weeping a black-red fluid. Hundreds of little droplets roll down like tears, striping the broken walls crimson. They're splintering now, redder than they are white. The shards are collapsing inward.

The space around him is shrinking and the shards edge closer like fangs towards their prey. The air is thick and smoky. He can't breathe…Can't breathe! And the bloody white debris are closing in, rubbing against him, biting, scraping his skin raw…He can feel them pierce his flesh, his blood spurting out…He can feel his bones being crushed, exploding from within…There's no air…can't scream…blood rushing…bones snapping…no air…dying…

_This is it, _Renn said to herself, mentally sighing to herself. He would be out of prison today, though he would have to be Intelligence's cannon fodder for a few years. It was surprising that he had gotten off so easily, but she had been told that he was extremely well-connected – so much for real justice – and he _was_ – had been, at any rate, mentally unbalanced. He had calmed down after a while, and despite the occasional rather disturbing behaviour, he was harmless now. It seemed that he had learned something over the course of his term.

The day she had met him was still clear in her mind. It had been, in fact, her first day of work; she had been practically fresh from university but highly recommended. It had been a strange coincidence that V138 had just been transferred from a (slightly) lower security place.

oOo

_Renn stepped into the cell – four cool, unyielding grey walls and a large transparisteel plane cutting the middle of the room in lieu of bars. This instantly gave her an idea of just what she would be dealing with – someone dangerous, obviously, because the material was strong enough to be used in the construction of spacecraft. _

_The first thing that came to mind was that the prisoner was smaller than she'd expected. Silly, but judging by his file, he should have been a brutish, towering mountain of muscle. That was the stigma she attached to 'terrorist'. For a moment, she wondered if she was in the wrong place. She had definitely not expected this._

_Slender, with close-cropped blonde hair and clear blue eyes, he did not look like he belonged here. He looked too young, too vulnerable. He sat curled against the wall, his head in his hands, staring. She was about to speak when he rose and walked to the clear wall that separated. He was only centimeters away, now._

_He was different up close. His eyes were rimmed with red, his face hard and sharp, like steel. He had a split lip and his cheek was cut and bruised, the blood caked but still oozing. His eyes fixed on hers, pointedly, with no discernable emotion. Hostile? Accusing? Desperate? Or maybe, maybe he was studying her as she studied him. _

"_Do you know why you're here?"_

_He just looked at her with slight derision. She took it as an affirmative._

"_I know why you're here. I read all about you."_

_He was staring at the wall behind her. Then he focused on her again._

"_My name is Renn. I'm not supposed to know your name – that's just the policy here. This is strictly professional. I know you probably don't like me, but you will have to get used to me, because I'm the only way you're ever getting out of here. They want to make you a valuable member of society. I know you don't want to be here."_

_He showed no sign of acknowledgement. His mind could have been in another place. She wondered what the world looked like through his eyes._

"_I know that you're not well. I'm going to help you. But for the moment, at least, we'll cut the crap. Can you tell me what made you do it?"_

_A blank face there. Then he blinked and said nothing. His face twitched and something fell over it._

"_What you did is atrocious. You have no excuse…it disgusts me," She shrugged as she said it._

"_But I will not hold it against you. I'm on your side; I'm here to understand you and maybe eventually find a way to help you. I need to start somewhere; I need to know your motivations. So tell me, what were they? It's a simple question, and I know you're not stupid."_

_He leaned closer and spoke softly, voice rasping, perhaps from disuse._

"_I like to kill things."_

"_I see. That's it for now."_

_As she walked away, she did not see his hand press against the plane that separated them._

oOo

Prisoner V138 awoke with a small cry. She was next to him, liquid brown eyes surveying him with concern. She clung to him still.

"You had me worried. You were moving in your sleep and would not wake up. Come on. We're leaving."

"Leaving..?"

She smiled; her eyes sparkled with a joy he did not seem to share.

"Yes, leaving. Don't you remember? You're free to go; we just need to do some paperwork."

Just like that – she said it like nothing had happened.

"I'm sorry about what I said. I…I wasn't myself. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Perhaps it was the way his voice shook that made her smile warmly and brush it off. Perhaps not.

"I know. Forget it."

Things could not be erased so easily. They could not be swept away with a glance. Some things stayed with you until death.

"I just…say things I don't mean. Do things I know I'll regret. I don't know what's wrong with me…"

His voice cracked under the strain.

"It's alright. I told you to forget it. Once you're out of here, you'll be fine again. I promise you."

She was so certain that it was not reassuring.

"I'm so sorry, Leia…for everything. I'm sorry for destroying everything you worked so hard to build."


	3. III

They left the prison facility soon after. He had almost not been present as they'd done the paperwork. His body had been there, but his mind had quite literally had been absent. Not somewhere else – just gone, as it had often been during however long he had rotted in his cell(s). He had his identity back, but he felt like an imposter, hiding in the skin of the real person, the person who did not seem to exist anymore. He was just a lingering imprint, the ghost of a soul long gone.

As they exited, the surroundings gradually faded from blank and utilitarian to ornate, intricately detailed and overall expensive-looking. What was a prison doing in the middle of…wherever here was? Though the place felt oddly familiar; he was certain that he had been here many times. Could it be..?

"Leia?'

"Yes?"

"Where are we?"

"The Imperial Palace."

He felt his eyes widen. It did make sense; he had been here a lot, but why now? The Emperor probably did not want to let him out of his sight after all that had happened – but why, then, was he still alive? He could have easily disposed of him – did he still believe that he could be bent to his will?

And what was Leia, of all people, doing here? Last time he had checked, she had been part of the rebellion and about as welcome on Coruscant, let alone the palace, as Vader was in her shower. _Vader…Father. _Suddenly, things did not seem so bright anymore.

"Might I ask what you're doing here?" He asked as they stepped into the turbolift, his tone dry.

"Don't worry; I'll fill you in when we get home."

"Home?"

She was happy enough to answer the implied question.

"Here. Floor 1667."

"You _live _here?"

So not only had she gotten here without getting blasted to pieces but had actually taken up residence here, in the very heart of the Empire. Something had to be wrong. He half-expected to wake up back in his cell…but this was still too sane to be a dream.

"Yes. I'll tell you everything; but you might want to sit down for it."

Her suite was large and well-decorated, but not stifling. She led him to a spacious, sparsely furnished living room and indicated the sofa.

"Brandy?" She asked, almost sardonic. He shook his head, words stuck in his dry, scratchy throat.

"Suit yourself."

They sat in silence for what must have been five minutes straight. He grudgingly broke the silence.

"How long has it been?" He could hear the undertone of dread in his words.

"Three years."

"Three years?" He echoed in slight shock. It had seemed both like forever and no time at all. It might have been ten years – or ten weeks. After a while, time no longer meant anything. It was just something that passed you by, taking little parts off your life, devouring you slowly – but no one noticed it until it closed in for the kill.

"Yes," she said, smiling ruefully, "A lot has changed since then."

What could have changed so drastically? The only way she could be here, alive and well, was if she was working for them…It was disconcerting that the one person who he had thought would never shift her loyalties had done exactly that.

Perhaps she had seen something – a twitch in his jaw, a flash in his eyes – because she seemed to respond to his thoughts – if he hadn't known better, he would have thought she was using the Force.

"Don't look at me like that." Her voice was slightly hoarse, eyes blazing mahogany.

He stared at her listlessly, unflinching. She downed her previously untouched glass in one shot.

"You know what I mean. You think I've done something wrong, don't you?"

He said nothing.

"Has it occurred to you that maybe I had no other choice? That I had nothing else left? The Rebellion was dying, Luke. As it had been for too long. And you're one to speak of wrongs," She finished bitterly. Then she sighed and continued.

"Han and I were captured a few months after. The Emperor granted us a full pardon, on the condition that we would serve him. At the time, I didn't know why."

This was not the Leia he had known. But really, who was he to talk? After all, he was no longer himself either. Things did change. People changed. He took a deep, shuddering breath before asking _the _question.

"What of Darth Vader?"

A cold, almost cruel smile played across her face.

"Oh, you shouldn't worry about him. He's done quite well, having become Emperor and all. But he doesn't want you, brother. You are nothing to him."

Brother. Sister. All this time, she had been right in front of his eyes, and he had not suspected a thing. _You are nothing to him. _The words rang in his ears. _Doesn't want you. _And he had found someone to replace him with. _I hope you're happy, Father. _But why did he, the traitor, feel so betrayed? Why did he suddenly feel so raw, so broken?

Leia smiled sharply, her teeth like cutting white spines, her lips red like swollen, bleeding petals imbedded in snow. There was a predatory gleam in her eyes.

"I know I told you to forget it…But some things can never be forgotten. Forgiven, yes. Never forgotten. You know that I did not bring you here because I love you."

He did. He suspected that she never had.

"You brought me here so you can keep an eye on me. So you can watch my every move until I'm gone."

"Yes."

"I really do hate you."

oOo

_"I'm Luke Skywalker, I'm here to rescue you," Said the blonde-haired boy in black, brilliant azure eyes studying her._

_He was not who he said he was, Leia knew. She had seen holos of him before, though he rarely appeared in public. She knew that he was a lot more conspicuous – and cold-blooded – than his false identity made him out to be. It disgusted her that Vader would go so low._

"_You're Lord Vader's son. You can tell him to go to hell. He is getting nothing from me."_

_He raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if this was really the best time for her to mouth off._

"_I'm not here on his behalf. Do you want out or not?"_

_Still wary and disbelieving, she took the chance and gingerly got up from where she had been sprawled. _

oOo

_It had been surprisingly easy to get off the battle station; she found herself grateful that her companion and possible though unlikely ally was an Imperial. They had sneaked off hastily, using little-frequented shortcuts, never compromising stealth. _

"_Where to, princess?"_

_Where would they go now? Could she possibly bring him to the base without bringing about the doom of the Alliance? _

"_Do you honestly believe that I would tell you where the base is, much less bring you there?"_

_He smirked, then became serious and nodded._

"_I've always wanted to defect, you know. When I found out you were here…Well, it was the perfect opportunity. I know I can't say anything to convince you. To you, I'm the enemy."_

_Damn, he was convincing. It wasn't what he said, or even how he said it – anyone with a little talent could have pulled it off. No, it was just a feeling. An instinct – and those she knew from experience were to be trusted._

"_Alright, Vader. I don't know why I trust you; I'm probably still under the influence off all the drugs. Scratch that. I don't, but you did save my life. Can you fly? We are short on fighter pilots, so maybe they won't ask too many questions…"_

"_Skywalker, remember? You can't blow my cover. And yes, I'm second to the Sith Lord himself."_

"_Sith Lord?"_

_As far as she knew, they were mere legends, stories that gave children nightmares. Did he mean..? It would explain the lightsaber and the rumours of strange powers._

"_Never mind."_

_Here goes nothing, she thought as she entered the coordinates for Yavin IV._

_The 'fresher door was open and the light was on. What was he doing in there for so long? Well, the door was open. She stepped in. "Skywalker" was…dying his hair? Yes, it was all black now, but still wet, and a canister of dye was sitting next to the sink._

"_What are you doing?"_

"_Rendering myself unrecognizable. I kind of figured I would have to do this."_

_So he was not a complete idiot – that was nice to know. She did not expect him, however, to produce a blade and slash his own face, vertically, across the eye. She could see the white flesh and the spots of blood appearing, and finally the red seeping onto his skin. She managed to control the shiver that ran down her back, but could not hold back the gasp that escaped her as she saw the cut slowly close and scar, all on its own._


	4. IV

Leia was dressed in black robes. In many ways, she was the polar opposite of what she had once been. A sad and ironic twist of fate, but again, who was he to talk? He was a live specimen of all that was warped and mangled, and foul, and disturbing...There were days when he loathed it. Then there were days when he felt a secret, disgusting pride.

After all, few could honestly claim that they were rotten to the core, that their genuinely evil father's hatred extended even to them, that they'd made their first kill at the tender age of eight and that they enjoyed seeing people scream and bleed. Who could proudly declare that they were treacherous by nature, that they despised those who had once loved him, that they could project dark, deadly energy from their fingertips and that their eyes sometimes turned to pits of fire?

Today he loathed it. Leia was wearing Sith robes and a lightsaber, and he felt the anger seethe inside him. What had given Vader the right to corrupt sweet, righteous, idealistic Leia? What had given him the right to replace him?

The truth was that he could not. He could not forget one he had raised from infancy, that he had bent out of shape, that he had known and possessed for his entire lifespan – he knew the story of Vader's fall.

Vader could not forget him. He could not throw the memory away. Vader could not throw him away, because he was already gone. He could not replace that which was one of a kind…could he? The answer stood in front of him in a dark cloak. He could kill her, if he tried – a lifetime of training would easily beat a couple of years.

"There's someone I would like you to meet," She says, smiling bright with false cheer.

"This is General Han Solo, my husband."

_This is Captain Han Solo, of the Millennium Falcon. He normally does supply runs for us, but today he will be flying with you on the assault on the Death Star._

"_Nice to meet ya, kid. Welcome to our collective suicide."_

Han Solo stepped into the room. Different, but it was him. Dressed in a stiff Imperial uniform, he looked more imposing, despite the almost unnoticeable limp. He had lost his scruffiness but not his stance or expression – you could take the smuggler off Corellia…His face was different. His jaw was clenched and one eye was dead and unfocused, the pupil dilated and to one side. His other eye was hard and steely.

He threw Leia a furtive glance. _What'd you bring him here for? _He didn't say it, but it was the thought that counted.

"Long time no see, kid. How did you like the prison facilities?"

"You too, Han?"

"I've been in the navy before. You can switch sides at will, why not me?" His tone was one of vague derision.

"I think I preferred it in my cell."

The crisp, chilly mountain air nips at his cheeks but is still bearable. The steep, jagged relief is coated with white, snow gradually hardening to ice. Everything shimmers in the deceptive brightness of daylight. The beauty is blinding; it makes it difficult for him to make out the lithe, white-clad figure running barefoot in the snow, flame-red hair rippling behind her, streaked golden in the sun.

He wants to reach for her; he wants to touch her frosted ivory skin, to drink in the spark of her eyes – but doesn't dare attempt it for fear of her fading, a spirit on her way back to eternity. A deep-rooted pang stabs at him as he stills himself. His breath burns inside him. Likely, she is just a vision dancing in his eyes, evanescent and untouchable.

As much as he doubts, he will not risk letting her pass him by…Not again. He springs forward, after this fleeting ghost. Like a hunter, he is closing in…He can almost claw at her lacy, silken nightshirt, flapping in the wind…No, she is too fast, fleeing further.

She almost eludes him, but there is now nothing in her way – only a sharp drop. Certain death. Would she choose the fall over him? Is he so revolting? He is almost there, perhaps five metres away, when something stops him. Nothing in his mind. He simply freezes.

She looks at him and smiles knowingly, tenderly, and she beckons. _Come here…stay with me. Do you not love me anymore? _And what a fool he is; in senseless hope he complies, having dreamed for so long of sinking into her embrace…He comes close enough and looks down to the dazzling ground. As he looks up, he sees only a skeletal phantom, cold and decaying. Death, leering at him through dark voids.

His breath left him in a rush as he woke. Not again…Why was she always there? Why did she always leave? Why did the dead never stay dead? Why did the past always have to come back to haunt him? Alone and shrouded in darkness, he held his head and closed his eyes tightly, in a feeble attempt to banish her from his mind.

There was one day left until he would once again be Daddy's little slave, if indirectly this time. In a way, it was better to be a prisoner than a slave. A prisoner was one held against their will, stripped of their freedom, at the mercy of another being. A slave was the same entity bound in servitude. Slaves had no right to defiance.

He was different. Not a true slave, for he indulged in it, keeping it in the depths of his soul, guarding it like a treasure. Not even Darth Vader's iron fist could crush him. It could only mangle him.

It was probably because of this that he could not find the heart to care – about anything, including his fate. The life he would lead for the next few years would be one of risk and futility. If he died, he would die serving something he abhorred. He had always thought that he would go out fighting for that which he believed in. There was nothing to believe in. He was filled with what had once been hatred. Now hollow contempt. Without his hate, he was cold and naked.

He bit his lip and refocused on who he was watching. It did him no good to think too deep, for the thoughts sank into him and cut. Han was working on the Falcon – no longer the battered flying crate he had known, but plated in glossy black and bristling with state of the art weaponry. One thing that would stay the same, he thought with a morbid smile.

There was an itch at the back of his neck, and that sinking feeling…Stupid conscience. Foolish part of him, still believing in silly ideas like friendship and love. Why couldn't he be heartless, like his father? Why did he try to be?

"Han. Still tinkering away the day, I see. Didn't she say you were a General?" He refused to call her Leia. Darth, maybe. What a hypocrite he was.

"Skywalker. Vader, whatever you call yourself. Still a scheming bastard, always watching people. I'm not _always_ on duty."

_Still your newer, colder self_. Depressing, but no more than anything else was. _Why so jaded? Jaded…_He fought the urge to split his skull on a wall, or to choke on tears. Inside, where no one could see, he was fragmenting.

"Whatever happened to Chewie?"

Han looked like he would spew sparks in his face. His mind spat curses.

"Chewie's dead."

Life never failed to further wound him. He should be used to it.

"I'm─"

"No! Don't you _dare_ say you're sorry! If you do, I swear I'll strangle you. I admire that you still have a soul, but please have the decency not to apologize…You screwed up my life. You killed my best friend, you destroyed Leia! Yes, she's alive, but not the woman I loved. I might as well be married to Old Buckethead; she spouts the same crap he does."

Han sighed. He had never sounded this tired.

"Don't look so surprised, kid. I'm not blind. I know you try. I want to forgive you."

_But I can't. Because sorry just doesn't cut it. Because you can't undo the damage. You can't bring anyone back. Because you are a loathsome creature and you can't change that._


	5. V

**Part V**

_

* * *

_

_Dear Father,_

_I suppose that you are otherwise occupied, but I choose to ignore this. Ruling your beloved Empire with an iron fist must be a full-time job. You will find that this sounds bitter and sentimental, or perhaps simple-minded – I have none of your eloquence, I'm afraid, but this is for your eyes only. I daresay you've heard worse. Or have you already banished the memory of me?_

_To get to the heart of the matter, I am writing to merely ask you a question or two. That is not too much to ask, I hope. Were you aware of my continued existence over the last three years? And if you were, was it your intention? Did you purposely leave me there, out of the picture, where I could do no harm? Where you would be spared the sight of me?_

_I am sorry to say that it could not last – they've unleashed me onto your world again. Who knows what damage I could do? I am, after all, a deranged mass murderer. Were you aware of this as well? Fortunately for you, they will not let me off so easily, despite the lack of a public trial, or any trial for that matter._

_The real reason why I am writing to you of all people is that I am leaving today. I don't even know where to – it is the story of my life, but who am I to wallow in my self-pity? You see, they've found another way to keep me away from everything that matters. From what they've told me, I gather that they'll be using me as an agent, for the sometimes dangerous, dirty jobs. Not unlike what she was. I have not forgotten. Though my hate has long since grown cold, for this I cannot forgive you. I find myself unable to let go – much like another acquaintance of mine._

_I know that we have irrevocable differences – there are many things I regret doing. I am writing because this may be the last time I ever contact you. The truth is that I cannot bear the thought of dying your enemy. Yes, it is a weakness. Condemn me for it, if you will. May the Force be with you._

_Love,_

_L. S._

Click.

**oOo**

Days faded to weeks, and death became routine again. He had been out of practice for so long. If you squinted, you could not see their eyes roll back into their skulls. Sometimes they screamed. That was harder to shut out – it helped if it was quick and dirty, a knife to the throat or the like. He could blast them, but explosions made noise; noise drew the barrels of blasters to him. In such instances, the question would come up. Would letting them fire be for the better?

Only he found himself afraid to answer, for the sick pleasure, that sense of fulfillment, of absolute power, had resurfaced. How empty his life had been without it, and what a sweet return this was. It would have been his dream existence, were it not for the other questions that came to mind. Such as _Am I powerful, or am I enslaved?_

He liked to think of the former, as he so often had. Untruths and half-truths were better for survival; it was a universally-known fact. Life was so easy when you could twist things into what you wanted them to be. Who needed sanity when there was bliss?

Such as that of ignorance, he noted. Mon Mothma's back was turned; she was unmoving. Having retreated to her homeworld of Chandrila, she had not been overly difficult to track. Either way, she had nowhere to run and most certainly nowhere to hide. Poor rebel scum. Just like him. Unfortunately for her, while their nature was the same, their sides of the quietly fading war were not.

He knew he would regret this, if only due to the memory of when he had almost had ideals. Would this then be the death of a mere memory? Curse the last vestiges of his feelings. He had done worse in the past.

"Skywalker. I knew you would come to finish what you have begun. Though I am curious as to why you would work against both sides."

"My loyalties do not lie anywhere. I was never fond of this war."

She turned and gazed at him intently, eyes unreadable but certainly hiding a spark.

"None of us were. But we were fool enough to believe that the means would lead to a greater end."

Her voice was slightly hoarse. _No doubt it is a hard blow, to be stripped of everything, until all you have left is your worthless self. _Indeed, they were all displaced. But who gave a crap?

"What good is a victory when there is no one left to celebrate?"

Mon Mothma smiled; without a trace of bitterness.

"Go ahead. Do it."

He plunged the lightsaber into her heart.

It had been a losing battle. A last stand, more for honor than anything else. Who could blame her?

**oOo**

More days blurred together, and he executed – a grim smile there – more orders. It was only the act of extinguishing a few more lights in a sea of stars. Nothing to drive him to tears. None of it had made him any deader inside than Mothma's exit. He did not feel a thing for her, being far beyond grief. It was the symbolism he would lose sleep over.

He blinked rapidly, as if to dispel any lingering brain activity. Those who lacked thought led the easiest lives. Of course, they could just as easily land themselves into a mire they could not climb out of…Was this his case? How he despised his own twisted mind.

He stood and went to make himself a caf, then headed to the cockpit to check his ETA. At least another three hours. When people spoke of space travel, they never mentioned the curiously nervous state of boredom one had to endure. Of course, this could just be one of his quirks.

With a slightly exasperated sigh, he returned to his cabin, sat down on his cot and opened the portable computer. Three new messages – one boasting free non-human pornography…some nerfherder ranting about something he did not recall saying. Did he ever waste time stirring up arguments on the holonet? And then there was something else, with Vader's unofficial address - just a few letters and numbers, utterly unrecognizable to but a few select individuals. A reply.

He fell back, letting his head smash against the wall. Stupid. What Sith-forsaken demon had possessed him to open contact with his least favorite person in the galaxy, after all that had happened? Let alone pour his soul out, albeit backhandedly. He hoped that he had not said anything particularly unintelligent. Holding his breath, he opened it.

It was blank. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What had he expected? For the rift to close over time? To be forgiven and accepted back as if none of it mattered? To be loved? _Delusions, Flyboy, _as she would have said. The truth was that time did not heal all wounds, that absolution was costly, that blood was worthless, that love did not transcend all things and that the last person who had loved him would be better off if she had looked away after the first glance – if she had shaken her head in disgust and turned her back on him.

**oOo**

The streets of Corellia were dark, dank and grimy in the night, the obscurity thick, heavy and smoldering, clinging to his skin like pitch, smothering him slowly. The air was dense and murky with humidity, unwilling to enter his lungs and less inclined to exit. None of it affected him significantly, however. A bestial instinct apparently programmed into him was dominating conscious thought. He was a hunter, and his eyes were focused on his prey.

It was a young traitor, a terrorist no older than he was, one who had repeatedly managed to escape the mighty Empire's reach, often enough to require his services. This could have been for sheer spite – yet another mind game.

Five metres. Definitely in range. He touched the blaster at his hip. Slim and almost inoffensive-looking, it was a state-of-the-art model, silent but deadly. On a higher setting, it could have blown its victim apart from ten times that distance. He preferred a more intimate murder, where he would see more than a body count or perhaps a figure collapsing in the distance.

He raised his weapon, and with the twitch of a finger, the man was down, charred, black-red holes riddling is back. He stood over him and watched his last breath leave him. Wide, moss-green eyes set in ivory skin continued to stare up at the sky.

It was pleasure. It was the facility of destroying something precious, something he could not create. It was taking without giving back. It was taking back what he had lost. It was power and futility. It was foul and liberating. It was agony.

**oOo**

_He has taken to wandering the palace whenever he is on Coruscant. The place, for all its beauty, is cold and lonely to return to. He finds himself in the Grand Reception hall, a wide corridor stretching out so far that he cannot see what lies at the other end, with a ceiling so high that it could have been an open space. His sleep pattern is nonexistent from all the travel. At this hour of the morning, the hall is deserted._

_A young woman is singing. She could be a far cry from talented, but with the echo, her voice is haunting, soaring with sweet darkness and fading slowly. She is not far from him; he can see her; her waist-length hair is fire-red against the deep green of her outfit. _

_As he comes up behind her, she falls silent and turns, directing a sharp glare at him. But only until she truly sees him. It is her – the girl he stops to exchange glances with, the one whom he is forbidden to see, the one whose eyes understand…The one who feels his pain._

_Suddenly, he is entranced. Their lips touch. And then she is enfolded in his arms, and he feels the painful longing. He does not want to let go._


	6. VI

_Three years since the Battle of Yavin. Three years since he had decided to fix his miserable life and work for the other side. Three years since he had met Leia and Han and decided to forget everything. Three years since he had gone from demon-spawn to hero – so they thought._

_Truth be told, inside he felt like the wretched, dark little thing he was…but this life, one of lies and unceasing hatred under the guise of sheer determination, was better than his previous pitiful, submissive existence._

_He tried not to let his true self shine through. He could not change his nature, try as he might. They all seemed to know. They could feel something frightful in his aura. He tried to blend in, but he was not one of them. He would befriend them, but they would not meet his gaze. Han and Leia saw through him, but accepted it. Still, there was something hollow about their friendship._

_Most people assumed that it was the war that had hardened him. They knew vaguely that he had once been an Imperial, but his carefully fabricated story stated that he was only a defector from the Imperial Flight Academy, one of the Alliance's most abundant sources of traitors. Nothing remotely dangerous. He was no Darth Vader – insert mirthless laugh there._

_There were times when he would find the façade incredibly difficult to maintain. Sometimes, all he wanted to be was his loathsome self – but there was no room for that on the Light Side. How twisted and wrong would that be? So he let the dark feelings fester inside him, buried too deep to be acted on. Like sweeping rubbish under the carpet._

_There was perhaps only one thing he regretted – no, wrong word…All odds indicated that he would never see her again. The only thing to placate him was knowing that somewhere out there, somebody loved him._

_Their relationship had not been a typical romance – no flowers nor tender words by candlelight nor even rosy, warm feelings. It was a different, desperate love. Intense and passionate, forbidden, therefore secretive, threaded with longing, it was almost painful. Often, one would return to Coruscant and fall into the other's embrace. Few words would be exchanged, for they were of little use. _

_What a great shock it would later be to see her again. It was one of Hoth's more vicious nights – frigid even in comparison to the usual. Han, Chewie and Leia had retreated to the _Falcon_; the heating was much better in there. Han and Leia. It took no genius to see the spark – or sexual tension – between the two. It was only a matter of time before they would come to see it for themselves._

_He, on the other hand, was going through yet another bout of insomnia, and the cold certainly did not help it. He had gone down to the (glacial) hangar bay to work on his X-Wing. He loved this ship more than he had his modified TIE or the various other ships he had spent his meager free time messing around with. Probably because this one was his own._

_Working on ships had a calming effect; it was likely the ease with which things could be put right. Things were so straightforward. Not a mind game in sight. He hit his head hard when he saw the waterfall of red hair cascading over the unseen edge of the fighter._

_Dropping the fusioncutter, he let out a colorful stream of words and crawled out from beneath the ship. She was sitting casually on the fighter's nose, legs crossed, arms folded. He blinked._

"_Wha…Mara? Is that you?"_

"_No, the Emperor." Her tone was acrid but there was a twinkle in her bright eyes. How could she remain unchanged when he withered away to a blackened shell of his long gone old self? It had to be part of her charm. Snarky by nature, she could be made more so by few things. Why of all times had she picked this moment for a surprise visit?_

"_Why are you here?"_

"_To see you." He felt himself break out in a grin._

"_Really?" She smirked at that._

"_No."_

"_Why, then?" He asked, bemused. Suddenly, she was serious again._

"_I need you to come with me. To come back." _Need you, not want you_. He bristled._

"_Why?" Like a broken message cube._

"_Because the Emperor – your father – wants you back. He's had enough of your rebellion." A derisive snort escaped him. What a way to put it. It was when his anger was not shown that it was the most potent._

"_Wants me back, does he? Wants his little slave back. What makes you think that I'm inclined to come with you? And why did he send you, of all people? To spite me? Does he think that your presence will make me docile as a kitling? I'm sorry, but that is not going to work. Tell him to try something else."_

"_You have to come with me. If you don't…"_

"_Then what? He'll slap your hands and make you clean his 'fresher? Force, I don't know him enough to know if he even uses one." It was amazing how quickly her facial expression could shift to one of despair._

"_No, you don't understand. He told me that if I come back without you, he will have…someone killed."_

"_Someone?"_

'_I'm sorry…I don't want to hurt you. It was just so lonely without you; you were gone for so long. And he understands everything about me; he loves me so much…I can't help what I feel. He will never hurt me." _And you will. You already have.

"_I'm so sorry."_

"_You sadistic little whore…I'll do it. If it makes you happy."_

oOo

He is back at the Empire's dark heart. For the moment. Until they yet again send him to his potential death. He steps onto the deserted landing pad – empty because few are authorized to land here. His connection to the Emperor's new pawn has granted him some benefits.

He walks to his quarters – also courtesy of Leia. The door slides open, revealing a spacious, tastefully furnished but barren apartment. The fact that it has not been lived in is apparent. He does not feel the need to personalize anything, no even to make it just a little less orderly. Instead, he sprawls onto the bed.

He has barely closed his eyes when the comm. beeps. Who would want to call him? Why would Leia take an interest in him? Amusing as it is for her to torment him. Groggily, he sits up and walks to the annoying device. Flicking it on, he sees a vaguely familiar face.

Female. Curly brown hair; hazel eyes; olive skin tone; high cheekbones. He should know her; he has seen much of her over the past three years. He says nothing.

"Hello, it's me – Renn –"

"What do you want?"

"No need to snap at me. I'm just calling to check on you, to find out how you're doing; I know none of this has been easy."

"I am not your responsibility. Might I enquire how you found me, considering that you were not to know my name?"

"Oh, don't tell me that you believed any of that. I could have found out at any time, though I don't believe I was encouraged to do so. I have connections. But I'm not calling to tell you my life story."

"I'm afraid you're wasting your time."

"I figured that you would say that. In that case, just know that you can call me any time you want to rant at someone. Until next time."

"Goodbye."

With that, her face disappears and she finally leaves him alone. Silly woman. Surely she does not believe that he would willingly speak to her. _No, I am certainly not alright. Thank you for asking._


	7. VII

The next morning came unexpectedly. No, it was not morning – the chrono read 1207; he had fallen asleep from exhaustion past 1700 the day before after a very brief conversation with the unbearable shrink who pretended to care. He would have preferred honest cruelty to her sickly-sweet words, sticky with the sugar coating.

After a quick shower, he opened the wardrobe to find something half-decent to wear – anything but yesterday's sweaty, rumpled clothes would do. Apparently no one had burned his old attire…

"Shavit."

He brushed the single scarlet hair off the otherwise solid black fabric and tried to banish it from his mind.

-:-

_The trip home had been uneventful; neither of them had said a word. She had flown the ship; he had sat and stared at a wall. Coruscant was beautiful, a sphere of dark marble engraved with lines of fire. He had to admit that he had missed it. It really was something, to possess such a place, though he had never appreciated._

_He had only realized how (superficially) well-off he had been after he had willingly chosen to lose it all and had seen the Alliances appalling lack of resources – it had been all dingy cabins, battered spacecraft, torn clothes and inhospitable temperatures, but there had been a warmth he could not find anywhere else. Even if he was a little further from the flame._

_They did not enter the atmosphere; _Executor _was waiting for them in orbit…He did not need to look up to know who was there to meet them as they docked in the private bay, one he did not know had existed. The telltale metallic breaths had always been enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck._

_It is sickening how she slithers over to Vader and takes her place at his side, impassive, outright telling him, _I am not with you. _How twisted it is that her loyalty belongs to one who threatened her loved ones – no, don't wince, he'll see – and not to one who would have sold his soul for her._

"_Skywalker. I see that my methods of persuasion have proven to be effective. Jade here says that you have been most cooperative. I trust you will keep up this pattern..."_

"_Blackmail, Emperor Vader? I was unaware that you could sink so low. So what is it that you want from me? Why am I here?"_

"_Why _are_ you here?" Always so cryptic. What sly motif has he come up with this time?_

"_Because you coerced Mara into bringing me here. Because you supposedly want me back. You could have asked. I would have already had an answer."_

"_How so?"_

"_We both know that what I did was an open declaration of treason. The answer is no, and I, for one, am not so easily bent to one's will."_

"_Then I am certain that I can convince you with some more drastic measures. You will either join me or be destroyed."_

"_I am not afraid of death." Said with a smile. _

"_Very well. You will either join me, or Jade will die."_

_She does not say that she would rather die than see him at Vader's side once again. She does not say that it is not worth it. She does not tell him to fight him, nor does she tell him that he knows what he has to do. She does not smile knowingly. In fact, she is silent as the dead. _

_He knows what he is, and what he is not. He is a murderer. He is a liar. He is a traitor. He is two-faced; he is depraved, he is foul-tempered and full of hate, but he is not weak-minded. He is not a coward, He is no sycophant, and he is certainly no slave._

_It comes down to two choices. Not three, not four. No alternate route. No back doors, no windows. Strong/weak. Death/life. Dark/darker._

I can't help what I feel…

_Should he be selfish or cruel?_

He'll never hurt me.

_He says nothing._

"_Very well."_

_Snap-hiss. It plunges into her back; the Sith Lord drives it through her heart. Her emerald eyes are wide with an infinite distance stare as she gasps and falls to her knees. A fine line of blood trickles past her lips and rolls down her chin. She opens her mouth, but her voice is gone. _

Sorry, _she mouths. Sorry I couldn't love you. You did the right thing, even if I am the one to die. Even if it hurts.These thoughts are left unspoken._

_And she crumples, pale as snow, and her eyes are like ice when they roll back into her forehead. Her lips are like bruised petals, and her hair spills across the metal grating like molten lava._

_He lets out a long, trembling breath and pretends to be a stone. He feels something in his chest splinter; he feels the shards cutting, burning. His soul is bleeding. He feels the darkness rising, pounding in his veins, obscuring his vision. He blinks and does not realize that his eyes have turned to fire._

_He ignites his blade, intense, searing red, like rage unleashed. In a storm of wrath, he throws himself at his enemy. In a moment, the weapon is at the other's throat._

_It should have severed his head, but did not. In a fraction of a second, his opponent had lit his own blade, and so begins the duel – their 'sabres clashing, shedding light, as if shedding blood. He is still on the offensive; his strikes are long and twist unpredictably, but Vader's defenses are of steel. They are in an open space; there is nothing for him to use to his advantage. Mercifully, the bay is empty; should he be bested, he will still be able to make an escape._

_The enemy tires of their game; he now takes the offensive, driving him back. The blows are merciless, they land viciously and are almost too heavy to be repelled. He has forgotten how skilled the other is. His palms are sweaty, and this does nothing for his grip; this makes it all too easy for the enemy to send his weapon flying. He is left defenseless…No, never defenseless._

_He springs forward and out, narrowly escaping a lightning-quick slash of the blade, summoning his own weapon. As the Sith turns, he attempts a powerful, sweeping strike, one that should have been a clean cut across the legs. His blow is almost redirected into his face. Vader almost, almost snarls._

_The enemy is a whirlwind of destructive energy. In his rage, the Sith slashes furiously, at anything and everything. His single blade could have been a dozen. It grazes his arm, exposing wires, opening an old wound, and the old, bitter loathing does nothing to protect him._

_One failure precedes another - he feels a streak of fire ignite on his thigh; a mist falls over his eyes; something sharp pierces his shoulder and the floor lurches upward, he feels its impact on his skull. For a moment, the mist shivers green, then clears, All he can see is the pain and black boots._

"_Pathetic. It appears that you have weakened since I last saw you."_

"_And you have grown more ruthless. You should kill me now,"_

"_No. You will get out of my sight and drag yourself back to whatever hole you hide in…"_

_He almost turns away, but then, as an afterthought,_

"_Disgusting. You are no son of mine."_

_Only then does he turn his back on him._


	8. VIII

_The rest was a burning, feverish haze. He saw very little, be it because of the shattering agony or the inky dark loathing dripping across his eyes. He lived in an everlasting, nightmarish present as he dragged himself, half-conscious, to her shuttle. _

_It hurts to think her name. It once sounded, to his ears, like a soft, pale flame, warm and silky. Now it is bitter, so becoming of its meaning. Bitter on his tongue as he whispers it over and over. She will not hear him._

_He pictures her body, smooth and slender, fragile, forgotten; he watches her skin turn ashen, then mottled grey. He watches her cheeks hollow out, watches her flesh turn black - she is just a rotting carcass. Who could love such a thing? He feels her icy, clammy fingers on his cheek…_

_-:-_

_When he woke up, most of the damage was gone, though it had been a while since he had felt this sore. Somehow, absent-mindedly, he had gotten back to her shuttle and slapped it on autopilot, destination anywhere away from the Empire's dark heart. He had promptly slipped into a healing trance, he remembered. Where was he now?_

_Now that the mist on his eyes had lifted, the world came crashing down with a vengeance. He sat in the cockpit and stared at the exposed wires of his arm. They gleamed –silver-white and looked razor-sharp, clicking as he flexed, sparking at irregular intervals. He felt the irrational urge to rip them out and dig them into his flesh._

"_I hate you too, Father."_

_He could deny it, but it would only bury everything deeper. It was an unwritten law of physics that all things hidden could not remain so. Damned truth. Lies were convenient. Lies were freedom, beauty and love. They were like roses. Like roses, they had thorns. And why did they, like roses, have to be so short-lived?_

_Sith-hells, it kriffing hurt. All he could hear was a whirlpool of resounding words, echoing, mind spinning, flickering like a broken holo. The tight feeling was again crawling up his throat, threatening to turn into a sob._

_But it did not. He never cried. It was an utter waste of energy. Grown men did not cry, and darksiders certainly did not. Vader did not, and would not, even if someone could see what lay beneath the mask._

_The cry was not ripped from his throat, his eyes did not sting and his sight did not blur. He did not tense up like a steel cord. He did not shiver. And then, he did not collapse onto the control panel and break all over again._

_He knew whose fault it was. None other than his own, He was the one who had so spitefully turned traitor. Damn the stupid Rebellion; his foolish, naive rebellion. Damn his darkness. Damn his father, his nonexistent father who disappeared. Damn Han and Leia and their insipid love. Damn his fellow pilots with the dull eyes and their distrust, and their unspoken, unconscious animosity. Damn her memory; damn her pale corpse...Death to everyone,_

_-:-_

_On the other side of the galaxy, the Alliance fleet floated with quiet grace, like shards in suspended animation…What has broken? All around, there was the sprawling shadow of space, frosted with pinpoints of light, silent as an eerie winter night. A sleek white craft blinked into existence. Then it opened fire, and the shards resumed their fall._

-:-

"You win. I'm just calling to get you off my rear end," He says as he picks up the commlink. _Correction: to warn you of my impending doom and thus get you off my arse forever. _He dials the numbers and waits – one…two…three….Perhaps she is away; just as well for him. He is about to switch is off, but…

Too late.

" Viell here."

"Renn, it's me."

"Oh, _you_. Of course, I am an expert at voice recognition."

"You should know my voice after three years. Didn't think I would call back, did you?"

"No, I figured you were too deep into your sulk. As for three years, you spent half the time glaring at me. Not that it worked."

"Obviously."

"So, is this a social call or are you taking up my offer?"

"Neither. I am letting you know that I will be away again…To keep you from flooding my message box, you know. And I do _not _need a keeper."

"Really? Because I was under the impression that you _do _need someone to make sure you don't do anything…rash."

"You mean make sure I don't kill myself or anyone else?"

"Exactly."

"Well, you need not worry. I think my next assignment will just about do me in. Which is actually why I'm calling. You will likely not see much of me anymore. I guess it's an early goodbye."

"Ever the optimist. I know all about what you did, remember? You're quite resourceful – I am certain that you will survive."

'Now who's the optimist? But before I go - If I fail to come back, tell Lord Vader…tell him I love him. Don't miss me."

"I will." Said with a smile. It was a promise.

"That's too bad for you. Goodbye, then."

"Not goodbye. See you later."

-:-

The world around him is a blur of faded grays and blues; all is murky. The eerie silence of the water engulf him. Clothing and hair floating around him, leaden and vaporous, he propels himself further into the darkening, glacial depths. Breathing is not a problem; he is equipped with an aquata breather. The pressure is another matter . He cannot tolerate much more; he can feel the inky fluid crushing him – if he keeps it up, breathing will never be a problem again.

The entrance should be somewhere near. Even with the glowrod, he can see very little. He resorts to running his hands over the slime-covered, seaweed-infested stone wall. It is only with the use of the Force that he manages to locate the control panel. After he depresses a button, a portion of the wall slides out of view to reveal a dark, dank entrance, by no means cavernous; barely large enough for him, a relatively small man, to stand up in.

Nevertheless, he reseals the entrance, obviously meant for the owners of this installation. He wishes he had his lightsaber; it would sure provide better lighting. He does not know the exact purpose of this facility – it is a laboratory and it belongs to Black Sun, but this is all he knows. He also knows that he must destroy it.

One should think that they would give him a more constructive task, but the truth is that they do not expect him to reform. Why not put him to use? He mutters a few curses under his breath and pulls out a stack of wet explosives – waterproof, thankfully. He doesn't think much for the next half hour or so as he darts around the passageways with manic speed, placing them strategically. They should easily blow the place.

He sets the timer for fifteen minutes – it should be enough time for him to get out but insufficient for anyone to catch on. Silly as it is, he finds something comical about stepping into a turbolift – it should not be so easy for him to waltz out of here…But he shrugs and is on his way.

It is a disturbing experience, to stand in the small, enclosed space and wait, knowing that should anything go wring, he will undoubtedly meet his demise. He pictures himself drowning in a storm of fire, feeling, for a split second, his flesh tear itself apart from the inside out, and everything blinking out of existence. He does not want to die.


	9. IX

He can feel time slipping away. Each heartbeat brings him closer to his possible end. Time is rushing like water and the lift is excruciatingly slow, taking its sweet time with no regard for anything or anyone. It is still moving up, he reassures himself – but why does he feel like he is sinking, sinking through the floor, falling down the shaft, lying broken and dying in fire…

He shudders. No time for this. He must think clearly if he wants to get out of this hellhole. If fate's twisted sense of humor had chosen this very inconvenient moment to make an appearance, the lift would surely have malfunctioned. But it has not. Perhaps the Force has finally decided to lay off.

The lift stops and the doors slowly, languorously slide open, and he is off, sprinting, the liquid fear burning inside him, driving him forward. Three floors, and he will be on the ground floor; all he will have to do is get out. One floor down. Up. Up, down, what does it matter?

Two floors. His breath is rattling in his throat and the grey tones of the walls are blurring together. Last one; his limbs are leaden and the floor is tilting...It jerks and hits him in the face, sparking against his skin. The world rights itself. The blood in his head is roaring like an angry sea and he seems to have misplaced his body…He forces himself to crawl to his feet and resume his mad dash.

And it _is_ madness. Blind and death, he runs, he doesn't care; all he sees are the grey tiles of the floor sweeping beneath his feet. He sees nothing as he collides with a spindly, rusted flight of stairs. The frenzy dissipates for a moment, and he can hear the boom of distant explosions; the chain reaction floors below, the fire gaining on him…

He blinks, shakes the vision from his head and clambers up the rickety flight. It opens up into a large, dank room, dimly lit by flickering glowpanels. It looks like a warehouse – shabby, lined with crates and boxes, and these seem to extend forever.

There should have been an exit – some sort of doorway; there always is. Escapes don't fail because people can't find the way out! Yet there he is, enclosed and doomed to die alone. He smirks bitterly. What an irony. Fate has outdone herself._ Best get comfortable. Hold on and wait until the ground shakes and your spine breaks._

The ground does shake; he is thrown and sent sprawling on the floor. A strange silence has fallen over everything. There is the rhythm of still-distant explosions, like a drumroll announcing impending oblivion…He lies and stares at the dirty ceiling, the snarl of pipes…_Pipe dream, _he thinks.

He thinks of Leia, cold, dark, hateful Leia who loves him still, and Han, the cynical bastard, and of the irritating, persistent woman who will miss him when he is gone…The dark specter who was never his father – _I wish you were…_ Lovely Jade, so strong, so delicate, lost forever – _I'm coming for you…_

The ground shakes again, and something snaps - cold, gritty agony…_Wait for the bright, killing light..._Darkness falls.

* * *

Painless quiet and a soft, regular sound, soothingly predictable. Like waves…It hurts to move his eyelids. 

He swallows; it feels like a hot shard of glass, scraping its way down.

Someone is breathing…In and out, like waves. _Just you, all alone…_

Fire on his skin; in his eyes…

He's alive. _Why couldn't you just die?_

* * *

Still breathing, whoever it is. _Just you; wretched little you…_

Just the water…_Pipe dreams…_

No more pain; he is blissfully numb; light and empty. He has no body.

He is there, hanging freely in the air, like a little speck of dust…

Opens his eyes…too bright; a sun is glaring in the sky, angry, scorching…_Why do you hate me?_

A dark figure, blurred and vaporous, stares down at him…breathing.

_Too early…I'm not dead…_

* * *

He opens his eyes again. The sky is a clear and endless. If he tried hard enough, he could drown in it. 

Still breathing…Why should this old ghost linger?

He runs his tongue over cracked, bleeding lips. There is blood in his eye, too.

Still breathing, in absurd monotony.

Something soft and black touches his cheek.

_Just fade…Don't want you here._

* * *

He's somewhere else, now. There is no water. Only jagged stones, grey as ashes from the wrathful blaze of the sun. 

Still breathing; he can't hear anything else.

"Still there?"

His throat feels like sandpaper.

"Yes."

Funny how visions can sound amused when one asks an innocent question.

"Not real…"

"More than you know."

* * *

He opens his eyes, and looks up - steel death mask with a hollow black gaze…He can see himself in those eyes, pale, frail and drenched in blood. 

"Vader?"

Sounds like ground glass.

"Yes."

Sounds like melted glass.

"Will you stay?"

"Always, my son."

"I'll try to stay."

And there he lies, shattered and numb, enveloped in warm folds of darkness. It's where he belongs.

* * *

White. Stark, brilliant white, sharp as ice. The light burns his eyes, worse than the sun…Sun? There's no sun here. White, he's wearing white again. He looks down; there are fresh scars on his arms, still red and raw. And burns, not seeping fluid anymore. There's an ache in his bones, and he does not know where it came from. 

He is back in the cell. Back? He never left. Then why were there wounds..? Nothing here could have done this to him. Not the walls, not the voices, not the ghosts.

Where has he been? It feels like he's been gone…

_Beautiful brown eyes, like melted wood…Leia? Black is not your colour…_

All his friends are dead. Dead, what a lovely, dreadful word.

_I want to forgive you._

…_Afraid you're wasting your time._

_Liquid copper hair, spilt like blood…_

_Dark water, fire and water, fire behind him, world collapsing…_

_Always._

_Welcome to our collective suicide._

He takes a breath and opens his eyes, truly opens them.

Splinters and ashes inside. The mighty walls tremble but do not fall. The unnamed prisoner weeps.

* * *

He's sprawled on the floor again; he's forgotten how he got there. He wonders for a moment, then gives up as the doors hiss and open. In she walks. 

She bends over and strips him with her gaze.

"So, how are we today?"

Blank, blissfully numb. Peaceful, so easy to let go…

"He almost loved me, you know."

She smiles stiffly.

"He just doesn't know it. Someday he will, and maybe he'll come back for me…someday."

"You're a lost little thing, aren't you? Forgotten. Left behind by all those who might have cared."

Yes. She's so spiteful, she's beautiful. Exquisite poison.

"But _I_ can love you. I will never leave you. I can fix you."

_I can devour you._

_Always._

_Never._

And he wants the poison.

She strokes his hair, gently, possessively. Because this is home.

_Finis _


End file.
